


Mirror, Mirror

by Idrelle_Miocovani



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Drama, Gen, Magic, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3426731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idrelle_Miocovani/pseuds/Idrelle_Miocovani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sildrun Brosca was just trying to find some important old lady's ashes. She didn't mean to walk into a parallel universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror, Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as part of a birthday/Valentine's gift to my partner, who introduced me to Dragon Age. I had a daydream several months ago about what would happen if his current Warden met my (then current) Warden... and this is the result. Thank you for reading!

The life of a Grey Warden was fraught with danger, sacrifice and more than one or two occurrences that no one saw coming. When Sildrun looked back at the patchwork of strange instances that had plagued her life by happenstance, there was one that outstripped the rest as the contender for “most bizarre moment”.

(Alistair, of course, argued that Sildrun was bizarre by nature. She pointed out that Alistair would look far more dashing with a broken nose and she added that she would happily help him achieve that oh-so-ruggedly handsome aesthetic. Morrigan approved, with the condition that they add a scarred face and empty eye socket to the complete the look. Alistair suddenly announced he felt the call of nature and did not return for an hour.)

It had happened like this.

Sildrun was leading her companions up a rocky slope slick with slush in the snow-dusted town of Haven. The knuckles of her right hand were spotted with blood from punching Sten in the nose less than ten minutes ago. The punch had been an impressive feat, considering the height disparity between a female dwarf, whose broadsword was almost as long as she was tall, and a male Qunari, whose deadly two-handed greatsword was definitely longer than his opponent was tall. But impressive feats were something of a regular occurrence where Sildrun was concerned; her short statue hadn’t kept her from disarming Sten with one blow, knocking him into the slush with a second, and breaking his nose with a third, just for good measure. No one took command from her, even if her command was that they climb a steep mountain in search for some ancient dead woman’s ashes, which may or may not exist.

Gushing blood and grinning uncharacteristically, Sten found his feet and proudly declared Sildrun worthy of being their leader. Morrigan howled with laughter. Alistair stuttered. Sildrun shrugged, picking up her blade and slinging it on her back. It was time they moved on.

She had just taken a step forwards when a thunderous sound burst around her and the air burst open. Blinded by a bright white light, Sildrun thrust her hands in front of her face for protection and was blasted backwards by an invisible force. She crashed into Alistair, knocking him to the ground, and then there was darkness.

Her ears buzzed. She felt wet and cold – snow had fallen down the back of her hauberk and it was melting. Gritting her teeth, she rolled up onto her feet and came face-to-face with the bright green eyes of a tall, powerfully built human in familiar armour. Sildrun cocked an eyebrow. She recognized that breastplate – intricate, royal, shimmering in gold. The armour of a king. A shiver crept down her spine (or maybe that was the melting snow). Sildrun set her jaw, teeth clenched, and hefted her massive, two-handed blade. She had seen it at Ostagar, worn by the king himself. And yet, the more she looked, the more she realized… though it _was_ Cailan’s armour, it was older. Much older. Battle-worn. Sprayed with remnants of dried blood.

Some bizarre, powerful magic was at work here.

Magic made Sildrun uncomfortable. Like most dwarves, she had been raised with little knowledge of the arcane, aside from a sharp lesson from Beraht on how best to profit from the lyrium trade. Her practical experience of magic came directly from her time as a Grey Warden, and none of it had been pleasant. She had come to realize that no matter how loudly the Chantry and the Circle of Magi claimed there were rules and regulations, magic could not be chained by the laws of mortals. Magic made anything imaginable possible. And the imagination stretched a very, very long way.

“Erm…” Alistair’s voice said cautiously, “are you doing this, by any chance? As a joke? A bit of magey humour?”

The woman blinked and turned her head sharply. “Why would I think this is funny?”

“I dunno, your ways of manipulating the arcane have permanently shattered any normal… sense… of… er…”

The warrior’s expression turned to stone.

“…not one of my better lines,” Alistair muttered. “So it’s not you then?”

“No, Alistair,” she said wearily. “It’s not me.”

“Shame. It’d be quite the joke if it wasn’t, you know… creepy.”

“Sod it all, Alistair!” Sildrun grunted. “What do you think you’re—”

She stopped. For the first time in living memory, Sildrun found herself lost for words. She was looking at Alistair, staring him down as she had often done. But something was wrong. He had the ruggedly handsome features, the quirky voice perpetually caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob. But he wasn’t wearing his customary splintmail, instead dressing himself in much heavier plate, armour she didn’t recognize. He carried himself with a confidant air Sildrun had never seen and there was a darkness to his expression – something that marred the face with age and experience.

Alistair stared at Sildrun as if he had never seen her before in his life. An uncomfortable gnawing churned in her stomach. Demon, spirit, travelling minstrel in disguise – whatever he was, whoever he was, this man was _not_ Alistair.

“Interesting,” Sildrun said.

“Interesting?!” Not-Alistair said. _“Interesting?!_ Is that the best you can come up with, dwarf? Out of all the paltry jokes or crazed exclamations to choose from, you go for ‘interesting’?” He paused. “I don’t think she has a sense of humour. Or a sense of fear. Or any sense at all, really.”

“If you keep going on like that, I’ll twist your tongue into a knot,” the woman said.

“So you’ve moved on to threatening me, have you?”

The woman ignored him. “Did you create the light?” Her words were calm, but underneath there was something else simmering – a twisted confusion of dark bitterness and anger. Sildrun’s jaw clenched; she had little patience for people who weren’t forthright with their emotions. They were always hiding something.

“I’m a dwarf,” Sildrun said. “What do you think?”

The warrior appraised her coolly, eyes narrowed. “Point taken.” She tapped the steeled fingers of her right hand along the edge of her left gauntlet. “Are you carrying any ancient artefacts? Magical items of unknown origin—?”

“No—”

“Potions? Herbs? Tokens?”

_“No—”_

“Charms? Tomes—?”

_WHAM._

Sildrun’s double-handed sword sliced through the air, slamming into the ground at her feet with such force that the woman and Not-Alistair jumped backwards in surprise. Breathing heavily, Sildrun stared them down as her gripped the handle of her blade. _“Don’t you get it?”_ she said. “I’m a sodding _dwarf!_ I don’t know nothing about magic except that it’s a pain in the arse and is nice enough to let me know when Darkspawn are nearby—”

“Wait—” Not-Alistair said, “—what?”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve blaming me for something _I_ physically cannot control—”

“Did she just say she can sense _Darkspawn?”_

“Yes I bloody did, I’m a sodding Grey Warden, aren’t I?”

For a brief moment, complete and utter silence hung between them. Then—

“There are no Grey Wardens in Ferelden,” the woman said, “save for Alistair and myself.”

Sildrun snorted. “Really? I’ve heard that story before—”

“Don’t be smart with me, girl,” the woman continued. “You’re far too young to have escaped Dust Town and joined the Grey Wardens in Orlais. You’re a liar. I can see it as plainly as the mark on your face.”

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” Sildrun snarled, raising her sword.

“Put it down, girl,” Not-Alistair said, eyeing her blade. “Last thing you want to do is fight a Grey Warden. Especially a mage. She’ll burn all your hair off with a snap of her fingers.” He appraised her tangle of long, dark hair and smirked. “What a shame that’d be – considering how long it must have taken you to grow that mane out.”

Sildrun dropped her sword. The heavy metal sunk deep into the snow, leaving behind a long, thick imprint. Dashing forwards, propelled herself through the icy air and clocked Not-Alistair in the face. He stumbled backwards, clutching his nose, blood seeping out from between his fingers.

The woman howled with laughter.

“Stop it, Myena,” Not-Alistair sputtered.

 _Myena,_ Sildrun thought. Pretty name. Almost too delicate for a woman who dared to wear a dead king’s armour – if that was what it was. Sildrun would have associated it with some air-headed puff floating through the palace halls in Denerim, not the cold, calculating warrior standing before her.

A calculating warrior who was apparently dying from laughter.

“I said _stop it.”_

“Grow up, Alistair. It’s just a broken nose, you’ve had much worse.”

 _Now,_ Sildrun thought. _Attack now, while they’re distracted._ But she couldn’t. Something within her was holding her back. It would be so simple to pick up her sword and end them. She knew she could do it, her fingers itched to do it… but there was a mystery here, something of great importance, something that could be of great value.

“It still _hurts!”_

“Get Wynne to fix it once we’re back at camp.”

“Why can’t you?”

“I’m not your caretaker, Alistair.”

“Right, _right_ , whatever makes you happy, O Great Leader—”

 _Wynne,_ Sildrun thought. Another copy? A coincidence?

“I think you look better with a broken nose. Much more dashing.”

“You’ve been spending time with Morrigan, I see.” Not-Alistair seemed about as pleased as the real Alistair did whenever Morrigan came up in conversation.

“Feeling jealous?”

“Me? Jealous? Why would I ever be jealous?”

“HA!”

Sildrun’s laughter rang out across the hillside, echoing in the chilly air.

Myena raised an eyebrow. “I almost forgot about our guest,” she said. “But not quite.”

She gestured. Immediately, glowing light encompassed Sildrun, preventing her from moving. Not that Sildrun _was_ going to move. The last thing she was going to do was turn her back on these freaks. Though her mind’s first reaction was to stick her sword through their pretty faces, her gut was still screaming that she needed to know more. They were odd, they were dangerous – but they weren’t necessarily evil.

But Sildrun wasn’t forgiving the woman any time soon for putting her in a magical cage that overran her natural magic resistance. Now _that_ was a blow to her ego.

“What did you do that for?” Not-Alistair said, glaring at the armour-clad mage as he waved his arms in Sildrun’s direction.

"To prevent her from running off,” Myena replied.

 _Practical,_ Sildrun thought.

“She wasn’t going to run off. If she was, she wouldn’t have punched me in the face.”

_Flaming nug-humpers, Not-Alistair has even worse logic than the real Alistair._

“Brilliant observation, Alistair,” Sildrun said. Her husky voice was echoed by Myena’s higher notes – they had spoken the same words at the same time.

Myena and Not-Alistair turned and stared at Sildrun.

“You’re a curious little thing, aren’t you,” Myena said. The hint of a smile pulled at the edges of her lips. Sildrun was yet to tell whether or not this was an indication of the crooked smile of a blood mage. She hoped to the Stone that this pretty woman was not a blood mage.

Time for a distraction.

“How are you wearing armour?” Sildrun blurted. “I was under the impression that most mages were spindly and out-of-shape. I’ve seen them collapse under the weight of a leather helmet.”

Myena seemed to cackle with energy as she fixed Sildrun with a stare so intense she appeared to be resisting the urge to channel a lightning bolt at her. In fact, Sildrun was one hundred percent positive that inner battle was occurring within the armour-wearing mage, for Myena’s expression was the one Sildrun wore whenever she had to suppress the desire to run someone through… and what was a mage’s equivalent to that very primal, violent instinct? Lightning.

(Or so Morrigan would have her believe.)

Sildrun fixed Myena with an unblinking look and grinned. “Andraste’s tits, you’re easy to annoy. And here I thought you had a sodding sense of humour – or does that only come out when Alistair’s being punched in the face?”

Not-Alistair groaned. “How is it we’ve managed to pick up a dwarf who’s _worse_ than Oghren?”

Oghren! Finally, a name Sildrun didn’t know…!

 _No, wait._ Sildrun groaned internally. She _did_ know that name. Wasn’t Oghren the husband of that Paragon who went crazy and disappeared into the Deep Roads a while back? Sildrun shook the idea out of her head. _Not important right now._

“Look,” she said impatiently, “can you let me out of this thing? I promise I won’t punch Alistair in the face anymore.”

“I’ll let you out once I’ve _figured out_ what you are,” Myena said coldly.

Sildrun sighed. There was only one way to play this.

“That’s easy, then,” she said. “My name is Sildrun Brosca, formerly of Beraht’s crew in Dust Town, now of the Grey Wardens. I am one of two surviving Wardens who made it out of Ostagar, the other being an occasionally funny man named Alistair who’s not quite as much of a pompous arse as the Alistair you’re saddled with. I’m currently hiking up some Stone-forsaken mountain in search of Andraste’s bleeding, nug-humping ashes because there’s a marginal chance that they will cure a very sick old man who we very much need to stay alive because he’s the only chance we have of getting this stupid-arse country to stop squabbling in petty feuds and realize they’re on the threshold of a Blight.” She paused and caught her breath. “Is that enough for you? If it’s not,” she continued even as Myena opened her mouth to interrupt, “I can also say that I just broke the nose of a Qunari named Sten and now he approves of my leadership skills, I have a Witch of the Wilds glowering at me back at camp, a useless bard-Chantry lady who’s offended by my very existence, and an assassin you tried to kill me and now would prefer to have sex with me. Oh,” she added after a moment, “and my healer’s named Wynne, too. Just so we have that out on the table.”

“Maker’s breath,” Not-Alistair said. “She’s you. As a _dwarf.”_

“Thank you for that incredible observation, Alistair,” Myena said.

“So, are you going to tell me how you got into that armour now or what?” Sildrun asked.

Myena stepped up to the shimmering cage. “Do you know a man named Duncan?”

Sildrun’s breath caught in her throat. “…Yes.”

“Did he save you from Dust Town?”

“Yes.”

“Did he offer to recruit you into the Grey Wardens?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

Sildrun gave the date.

Myena’s expression turned to stone.

“Myena, come on,” Not-Alistair scoffed. “She has to be lying. Please tell me you’re not taking this seriously—?”

“If he hadn’t saved you,” Myena plowed on, “what would have happened?”

Sildrun shrugged. “I probably would have starved in the Carta cells,” she said bluntly. “Leske and I had a bet going, you see.”

Silence fell over them.

“Maker’s blood,” Not-Alistair said. “What’s going on?”

“I think I have an idea,” Myena said. She raised a hand and the glowing cage evaporated. Sildrun gave her arms a good stretch and she picked up her sword.

“You’re letting her _go?!”_ Not-Alistair exclaimed.

“Someone like her doesn’t deserve to be locked in a magical cage,” Myena said.

Not-Alistair looked at her blankly.

“You said she’s me,” Myena said. “As a dwarf. That’s exactly what she is. She’s me if Duncan hadn’t come for me.”

Not-Alistair frowned. “So that dead dwarf in the cell…”

“Her. Or a version of her.”

A cold chill went down Sildrun’s spine. “Now _I’m_ getting freaked out,” she interrupted.

“It’s all very simple,” Myena said. “I’ve read the theories on it, I just never imagined anyone would experience it in the practical world—”

“I don’t get her,” Sildrun grunted at Not-Alistair. “Is she a warrior, a mage or a scholar?”

“All three,” he replied. “Unfortunately. And a smartass, come to think of it—”

“Do you want to know what’s going on here or not?” Myena snapped.

“Fine, _fine,”_ Sildrun interrupted. “Go ahead, your Mage-ness.”

Myena rolled her eyes, an uncommonly juvenile look on someone with such a regal, otherworldly presence. “Every choice we make, every choice our ancestors have made, has led to a string of infinite alternative dimensions. We all inhabit the same world, but at the same time, they are _different_ worlds. Your Duncan chose to go to Orzammar the day he saved you from your doom. My Duncan—” She glanced at Not-Alistair. “ _Our_ Duncan made a different choice. He went to the Circle of Magi, where he met Irving’s troubled, but bright young protégé – who could have been anyone in your world.” She paused. “You’ve been to the Circle of Magi?”

“Yes.”

Myena nodded. “So I gather you understand what happened there.”

“Yes.”

She paused, an odd look on her face. “I imagine your world’s me is dead.”

“Your world’s me is dead,” Sildrun huffed, “so I don’t see what the problem is.”

“So we have all these other worlds,” Not-Alistair said. “What’s the deal, then? Why is she here?”

“Sometimes a moment of similarity can draw two worlds closer together,” Myena said. “So close that its inhabitants might briefly be able to pass from one into the other. That is what I imagine happened here. We are both searching for the Urn of Sacred Ashes. We have both had a recent incident with Sten – you went for breaking his nose. I had to run out of the way and then hit him with a lightning bolt.”

“And _BAM,_ that somehow made me show up here?” Sildrun asked. “Weird.”

“Magic is bizarre, I agree.”

“When can I get back?” Sildrun asked impatiently. “Not that you two aren’t… great… or anything, but I’m not exactly comfortably sharing my quests.”

“Soon,” Myena said. “It should happen on its own – or so it’s been theorized. Your companions may be confused as to why you were frozen in one place for so long with drool coming out of your mouth.”

“…great.” Sildrun folded her arms. “So glad we got all this figured out and that I got my daily dose of weird.” She paused. “Because you are _weird._ Especially you.” She pointed at Not-Alistair.

“How am I weird?” he exclaimed.

“You’re not the Alistair I know,” Sildrun said.

“I have more life experience than the Alistair you know,” Not-Alistair grunted. “Just wait and see how happy-go-lucky he is after he’s tangled with werewolves, been kicked out of his sister’s house, burned the King’s body, been mortally wounded a few times, and been generally harassed, kicked around, mocked and put into a great deal of pain because Morrigan got her hands on a little Alistair doll and she puts pins in it _for fun—”_

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on my Alistair,” Sildrun said, patting Not-Alistair on the cheek. “I wouldn’t want him turning into you anyway.”

“Great. _Thanks.”_

“You’re welcome.”

“Alistair,” Myena said, “would you mind leaving us alone? There are some things I wish to ask Sildrun.”

Not-Alistair threw his hands up in the air. “Of course! It’s a little Grey Warden party, except I’m not invited because the other me didn’t have the decency to show up.” He rolled his eyes. “See you, Brosca,” he said. “I hope your world turns out better than ours.” He glared at Myena and stalked off through the snow.

Sildrun raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Tension running a little high, I take it,” she said.

Myena puffed out a breath of air. “Alistair can be… difficult. He doesn’t trust me. Which confuses him, because there was a time when I was the only person he _could_ trust. He even believed he could love me, once. We’ve been across all of Ferelden together and I know he will do anything to protect me, but there is a darkness seeping into him and I’m at fault for that.”

“It gets to us all eventually,” Sildrun said.

“I’m not speaking of the Darkspawn taint or our duty to save Ferelden from the Blight,” Myena said. “I’m speaking of something much more personal. What choice did you make at Redcliff?”

“Excuse me?”

“The child at Redcliff,” Myena said. “The one responsible for the nightmare that town went through. Arl Eamon’s son Connor. What choice did you make?”

“I went to the Circle for help,” Sildrun said.

“You were not worried that it would take too much time?”

“No,” Sildrun replied. “Ever since I got the Circle sorted out, I’ve got Irving wrapped around my little finger.”

“I see.” A painful expression washed over Myena’s face.

“What choice did you make?”

“I killed the child,” Myena said softly.

“You _what?”_ Sildrun exclaimed.

“I didn’t believe I had a choice,” Myena said. “I know how quickly dark magic like that can fester. And part of me couldn’t forgive Connor for what he had done, unintentional or not. Demons are not something to be toyed with, even to save a loved one’s life. I believed I had to deal with the situation as quickly as I could, and I refused to resort to blood magic. It was the only way… that I could see. Alistair has never forgiven me.”

The wind howled across the frozen landscape, whipping Myena’s golden hair around her face. She looked unearthly, dangerous – Sildrun’s gut was telling her that no matter how this Blight ended, Myena’s fate would not be a happy one.

“The choices we must make are never easy,” Myena said. “And sometimes what you believe to be the best choice in a particular moment will only come to haunt you. There is much darkness and despair in my world and sometimes it is easier to fall into it than to fight it. But I am glad, Sildrun Brosca,” she added after a moment’s pause, “that you were able to make the better choice. Your world is in good hands.” She smiled.

Sildrun stood silently for a moment, lost for words. “I… thank you, I guess.”

Myena raised her head. “I believe I am further down my path than you are on yours. Is there anything you wish to ask of me?”

Sildrun crossed her arms. “Yeah. Why the bleeding _hell_ are you wearing King Cailan’s armour?!”

Myena threw back her head and laughed. “The answer to your question comes in two parts,” she said. “The first you will find the first buried deep in the Brecilian Forest amongst the ancient elves. As you are not magical yourself, bring Morrigan with you – she might find it useful.” Her eyes gleamed for a moment. “Between you and me, her shapeshifting abilities aren’t anything to brag about.”

Sildrun howled with laughter. _“Now_ I’m starting to like you,” she said. “What about part two?”

“It took some convincing,” Myena said. “I myself feel a little… eerie wearing this particular plate, but until we uncover the armour best suited for my particular talents, it’s the best we have. I thought Alistair should wear it, but he refused. He said he has no desire to turn into his half-brother and wearing Cailan’s armour would be a step in the wrong direction.”

“I haven’t returned to Ostagar yet,” Sildrun said quietly.

“You will, in time,” Myena said.

“I’m sure.” Sildrun paused. “Is it just my Leliana who’s a really pathetic archer, or is yours like that, too?”

“I haven’t met any decent archers, to be honest,” Myena said. “And I’m not a fan of her. I don’t trust bards.”

“I don’t like how nice she is,” Sildrun said bluntly. “Nice people make me frustrated. For a bard, she understands very little of how cruel the world can be.” She paused. “Most people out there are like that. The world’s going to hell and it’s our job to get people to wake up and smell the blood and carcases. The Darkspawn won’t leave you alone if you close your eyes.”

“And yet there is so much resistance,” Myena said sadly.

The warrior and the mage glanced at each other and for a very brief moment, complete and utter mutual understanding passed between them. They were from other worlds and they would never meet again, but for this briefest of moments, they had met someone who fully understood the predicament they were living in.

“Myena—” Sildrun began, but her words were swallowed up by a thunderous noise, a blinding light and a buzzing in her ears. Just as before, it had come out of nowhere. Darkness pulled her down, down, down – and suddenly, she was lying in a slushy snowbank on the mountain side next to Alistair (the real one). He was trying very hard to get to his feet, but was having an enormous amount of difficulty manoeuvering in the snow thanks to his armour. He glanced at her and his eyes lit up.

“Sildrun! Finally, you’re awake.”

“I was asleep?” she asked.

“You’ve got drool coming out of your mouth,” he said. “A little bit. Right there.”

Sildrun wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and grinned. “Nice to see you, buddy,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? Did I go somewhere?”

“Let’s just say… yeah.” Sildrun rolled over and pushed herself up on her feet. She reached out and tugged on Alistair’s arm, pulling him out of the snowbank. “I like you the way you are.”

“You’re being rather affectionate all of a sudden,” he said.

Sildrun punched his arm. “Don’t get any ideas, kid,” she said.

Alistair rubbed his arm. “I’m not! I swear I’m not!”

Sildrun grinned at him and turned to see the rest of her party running up the hillside towards them. It appeared she hadn’t been gone in that other place for too long. She thought of Myena, and Not-Alistair, and the darkness that had been simmering in them… Myena had made her choices. Sildrun would make hers. And she would stand by them and hope that everything turned out all right.

And as she stood there, knee-deep in snow on a hillside in Haven, surrounded by dear friends, the clouds above parted and sunlight shone down upon her and her companions. It probably wasn’t a sign – Sildrun didn’t believe in such superstitious nonsense – but if it _was_ … well, then, she’d imagine that it was one that said everything would turn out all right.

“Come on,” she said, hefting her sword. “Let’s go figure out what happened to Brother Genitivi.”

  _fin_


End file.
